“I couldn’t, but one of the local security team could,” he says.
“I know how much you value your freedom, but you can’t just go out on your own without protection. Especially when there are hundreds of people waiting outside,” Paul cuts in. The elevator jolts as we reach the fifth floor, making his glasses slide down his nose.
I feel even smaller, like a child being scolded for doing something any other human—well, one that isn’t as famous as I am—gets to do.
“I know. I know. It won’t happen again, I promise,” I say. I keep my head down, knowing I will no doubt be seeking forgiveness again in the future rather than asking for permission to do anything.
As the doors open, Rob does a quick scan of the hallway to ensure the coast is clear before we exit. We walk down the hallway on the royal blue carpet, passing a table with an old rotary telephone on it and a scattering of framed pictures of trains and railway stations on our way toward the Presidential Suite.
I take a few deep breaths to brace myself, knowing the rest ofthe team is waiting inside, as Rob taps the key on the card reader.
The fuss starts as soon as I enter. They are all loitering around the long oak table, which is littered with a dozen Brewed coffee cups and enough paperwork to deforest the Amazon jungle. It makes me question whether my tour really is carbon neutral.
Before anyone has a chance to address me directly, I swiftly turn to the right, making my way through the bedroom and into the bathroom, and attempt to shut the door behind me. Paul’s hand stops it from closing. Connie stands behind him, in a silk blouse and pencil skirt, holding a can of Diet Coke in one hand and flicking strands of her blond bob behind her left ear with the other.
“Alex, we don’t have time for this.” He rolls his eyes.
“But I need to shower before we head out.” Swirling anger rises in my gut.
“There are showers at the venue,” he says, his eyes narrowing.
I know this, but I’ll be damned if I don’t try to grab at least one more moment to myself before the machine kicks in.
“Surely you don’t want the paparazzi and fans outside to see me like this?” I question. I stretch out my hands, showing off the scrape on my palm, and then gesture at my disheveled appearance.
It’s the only angle I can think of that will appeal, if not to Paul, then at least to Connie, whose job it is to ensure I look my best when it comes to public exposure.
Paul briefly glances at Connie before returning his attention to me.
“Well, you should’ve thought of that before you went and did your disappearing act. We’re already late for soundcheck, and the doors open in two hours.”
Paul pushes the door open wider and gestures at me to return to the bedroom.
I drop my shoulders in defeat and follow Connie back into the main room where everyone is now waiting by the door, ready to go.
Leaving the hotel is a military-style operation, complete with decoy cars, additional security guards to back up Rob, and a clear path out—all with the goal of reducing any threats to my safety. It also hammers home the perceived recklessness of my actions this afternoon.
When I emerge from the hotel, the size of the crowd seems to have exploded. It’s almost equivalent to those I experienced two months ago on the South American leg of the tour. Fans had camped outside the hotels in Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro, and Mexico, singing and playing my songs at all hours of the night.
Thankfully, unlike those hotels, the Landmark has a private road at its front entrance that fans aren’t allowed on, which makes getting into the waiting vehicles easier. Lucy, Rob, Paul, Connie, and I get into the first black Mercedes sprinter. The rest of my entourage jumps into two other waiting vehicles.
The radio drowns out the screaming fans outside as we pull away from the hotel and onto Marylebone Road, speeding off toward the O2.
“It seems like the whole of London has come down with Alexander Morgan fever this week, and boy, can we see why!” the DJ says. “Tonight kicks off the first of his seven sold-out shows at the O2, and we’ll be there to bring you all the exclusive news. Plus, stay tuned for your chance to win tickets to join me, Abbie McCarthy, and meet the man himself anytime you hear his latest single,My Anchor, this week on Capital FM.”
Although I’ve been doing this for ten years now, it’s only in the last couple that my career has gone stratospheric. My teamhas made a deliberate push to move me away from teen sensation to credible solo artist, starting with the release ofIt’s You That I Need. It has been a gift in one sense that my music is finally getting the recognition I’ve always wanted, but it’s also a curse, with all the restrictions and added security measures it brings.
While Paul, Connie, and Lucy discuss the schedule, I sink lower into the leather seat, savoring these last few golden moments of calm before the madness starts once more.
The madness of the first show here in London has everyone running round like headless chickens as they try to get me from my dressing room to the stage before the show starts.
Sound check overran by an hour due to technical issues, setting everything else back, including the meet and greet, and now I’m rushing underneath the stage to the end of the catwalk, with my stylist, Laurie. She drops to her knees as we reach the end and stares up at me, panic strewn across her face.
“I can’t get the zip to close. Can you try sucking in your stomach in a little more?”
The buzzing sound of the crowd can be heard over the intro video as she frantically pulls at the zipper. I do my best to help, exhaling and trying to shrink my abs and glute muscles so she can button the fly, but all the working out I’ve done to buff up means my leather pants are so tight they’re practically cutting my circulation off. Laurie reaches for the talcum powder by her knees, shoving more on the skin around the waistband.
I hear Freddy kickstart the playback in my in-ear monitors.
